Sandwich
by MarbleSky
Summary: The rise and fall of Bartholomew of Sandwich.
1. Chapter 1

"Would you look at that! Have you ever seen anything so marvelous in your life?"

The younger man looked over at his brother with indifference. "I can think of a few things."

A loud groan filled the air. "Must you ruin this moment?" the older one asked, frowning.

"I suppose it is _somewhat_ pleasing to look at."

Both men shared a smile as they gathered their belongings and headed towards the exit ramp. The trip had been long and treacherous, and weeks on a boat was not ideal, but it was necessary when crossing the sea. Of course, both endured and survived their spell of seasickness, but it was long forgotten now. It didn't matter. They were finally _here_.

They waited patiently to get off the ship last, making sure all women and children were off first. With their suitcases and bags in hand, they finally stepped onto the dock and looked out onto the inviting land before them.

"What did I tell you, Bartholomew? Gorgeous, right?"

The man nodded. "The air smells much cleaner here as well. And there is a considerably larger amount of trees."

"Master Ince?" a voice spoke out behind them. Bartholomew and Ince looked back to see a young lad holding out a key to them. "This is for your room. It is located at the inn about half a mile down the road."

"Thank you," said Ince, clapping the boy on the back while he took the key. A small gold coin was dropped into the boy's expectant hands, eliciting a happy thanks from him before he took off. Turning back to face his companion, Ince asked, "Are you ready?"

Bartholomew nodded. "You found a place for us to stay already?"

"You give me too little credit, brother," he smiled. "I _always_ have a plan."

"Of course you do," said Bartholomew with an eye roll. " _Sir_ Ince of Sandwich always has a plan."

He frowned. "I am just Ince of Sandwich now. You know I do not like that other…affiliation. Why must you bring it up?"

"I am simply surprised you decided to leave it in the past, is all."

Ince shrugged, looking off into the distance. "Everything has a beginning and end. It was a good season for change. Besides, seeing the New World was something I had thought of doing for some time now. It was just impossible with the bloody crown chaining me down."

"Did you have to bring me along?"

"With me gone, who would have protected you?"

"I can fend for myself," Bartholomew mumbled, though he fought to keep a smile from creeping up on his face.

He had to admit, it was exciting, traveling the world with his brother. The idea had almost been a spur of the moment sort of thing, but it had worked out in the end. So it wasn't like he hated being here. He just couldn't make it too obvious to Ince.

And what his brother had said was true. Bartholomew's time in England would have been much worse when the King discovered one of his Royal Knights had deserted. They would hunt him down, not caring if they had to take family members in and torture them to discover his whereabouts. That's where the danger came in for Bartholomew, and it was really a no brainer to flee the country with his older brother. He was all he had.

The walk to the inn seemed much shorter than any other half mile Bartholomew had ever walked. It probably had to do with the fact that his legs were the last thing on his mind. Everywhere he looked, something new distracted him.

There were all kinds of artwork made by the indigenous people, varying from clothes to tableware. Clay pots and turquoise stone jewelry lined the outside of humble homes, along with fur coats and small game for dinner. The children occupied themselves with games on the floor, marking the dirt with long narrow sticks and laughing together.

When they finally arrived at the inn, Ince set his bags down next to the cot he had chosen and handed his brother the key.

"Across the street is a saloon. Go and get yourself a drink. I will not be long."

"Where are you going?"

"I have arranged to meet one of the locals. It should help us out a bit more if we knew where we could find jobs and a permanent place to stay."

Bartholomew made a face as his brother left the room and closed the door.

Jobs? What did he have in mind? Laboring? Like a commoner?

Back home, Ince's status as Knight had kept them relatively well off, and something like this was completely new.

Still, if it meant independence from that damn monarchy, then so be it. The entire idea of kings was repulsive to him.

…Unless it was him on the other end. One couldn't turn down a bowl of stew without trying it first, right?

King Bartholomew. Now _there_ was an idea.

Shaking himself from the thought, he finished unpacking a few things before fishing out his coin purse and heading to the saloon. Nothing better than a shot of good whiskey to cure a parched throat.

At the bar, a few minutes turned into a few hours. Half a day later, Ince still hadn't shown up. The more Bartholomew waited, the more he was tempted to keep drinking. He wasn't much of a drunk, but the worry was starting to creep in. He hoped his brother was alright, away from any kind of danger.

He was a knight, for crying out loud! He could take care of himself, right? Of course he could! If he couldn't, then Bartholomew would have to go looking for him. And that simply couldn't happen. If it did, then who would take the pretty little doxy across the room home with him?

Tentatively, he approached her table, smiling as she batted her eyes at him for the tenth time.

"You new around here?" she asked him with a shy grin.

"Aye. Just got here today."

The woman looked him up and down once, the smile never leaving her face. "Straight from the Old Country. How...interesting."

He returned her smile, watching as she came closer to gently tug on the collar of his shirt.

"We can go find someplace a little more quiet to discuss your travels," she whispered with a seductive grin.

Taking him by the arm, she led him to one of the back rooms, helping him forget his worry for his brother.

* * *

Three hours and seven silver pieces later, Bartholomew was in his room at the inn preparing for bed when Ince walked in.

"Where have you been?" he demanded immediately.

His brother gave him a wide grin. "Out with the indians. You have no idea what it is like to spend a day with them! I was going to show up at the saloon earlier, I truly was, but I got caught up."

"What did you do out there?"

"Lots of things! We herded cattle, uprooted some vegetables, and even went fishing!"

Bartholomew made a face. "How fun."

Ince crossed his arms. "Just because I did not go run off with a harlot does not mean I did not have fun." He laughed when he saw Bartholomew's face. "You think I would be kept from something like that?"

"It was nothing."

"Oh, I bet."

Fortunately for Bartholomew, his older brother decided to drop the conversation. Changing clothes to his evening attire, Ince jumped into the empty cot, blowing out the candle on the dresser and laying flat on his back. He looked up straight towards the ceiling and smiled.

"You should come with me tomorrow."

"To the fields?"

"It is not so bad," insisted Ince. "The indians know a great deal. And they are more open to friends than they are with strangers."

"You are still a stranger," Bartholomew pointed out.

"But not as much anymore. I think they like me."

"Alright. If you are their friend, as you claim, what kind of things have they confided in you with after just one day?"

"Well, not much," Ince admitted, frowning as he searched his brain for anything interesting.

"Let me guess, they spilled the highly guarded secrets of when to harvest the best vegetables."

"Well, that is not much of a secret, but-"

"Did they tell you about how to use the bones of animals for black magic?"

"No, that is actually quite disgusting and-"

"Or did they tell you about the wild, mysterious dangers of the west?"

Ince's eyes lit up at that. "No, but there is a story about the wild and mysterious! A legend of sorts. They mentioned it briefly."

"What legend?"

Ince propped himself on his elbow and looked over at his brother's cot. "They say that some time back, a group of them went down below to live as a separate colony."

"Down below?"

"Underground," he nodded excitedly.

"And you believed them? Do not be ridiculous, Ince. No one can survive down there. It is a place with no food, I doubt the water is clean, and the lack of sun would surely kill someone."

Ince frowned. "I suppose you are right," he said, laying back down. "But suppose it is true?"

Bartholomew sighed, shifting in his bed to get more comfortable. "Then we will find out tomorrow when we speak with them in the fields."

* * *

Over the next few weeks, the brothers made it their unspoken duty to find out more about this underground land, which strangely, seemed more and more real with each story.

It was on one particular evening while they were on their way back to the inn from the fields that they encountered an older indian native. The man was fairly friendly, not much of a talker but very respectful. He nodded quite a bit and liked to hum in response to yes or no questions. The pitch varied when he confirmed things from when he denied them.

He lived not far from where Ince and Bartholomew were staying, so they struck up a conversation on the way home. After some quick chat, they discovered that he actually _knew_ how to get down to the underground settlement. Apparently, he had been part of the initial movement that sought refuge underground, though he returned to the surface after a short while.

Careful not to reveal too much excitement, the brothers asked a few discreet questions before thanking him and retiring to their room.

As soon as they were inside with the door shut behind, Ince reached for his brother's hand and turned him around. "He is a guide, Bart! A guide that can take us there so that we can see this place for ourselves! We may have to offer him something in return, but that will not be much of a problem."

"Ince, he said it has been years since he was last there. And by the way he said it, I do not think that is within the last decade. Something like that is long gone by now. Surely they have not survived-"

"But what if they have?"

Bartholomew frowned. "What good would it do us to go down there in the first place?"

"It would definitely be better than this! It has been almost a month, and the money we earn is barely enough to pay this room! We are fortunate the meals are included. Maybe that could all change with this."

He chewed the inside of his cheek nervously. "I am not so sure."

"Will you at least think about it?"

"Fine, brother," he sighed. "For you, I will think about it."

"You are much too stubborn sometimes."

"Yes, well, I suppose it runs in the family."

* * *

A few days later, before Bartholomew could give an answer, there was a problem with one of the indians. One of the aristocrats had accused him of stealing, causing a huge brawl on the street. Sides were taken almost immediately, and the tension that arose was fragile. Any little thing would cause arguments between the indigenous and the settlers. It was a tension that only got worse with time. Battles resulting in deaths had already begun elsewhere. It was only a matter of time before things escalated into the next step, and everyone knew it.

Bartholomew, for the most part, got the hang of his new lifestyle, finding small things to keep him busy and interested in the colonies. Blacksmithing was one of the doctrines he took up, and it went surprisingly well. His brother found a job constructing houses, and soon enough, they had plenty of time and money to start building one of their own.

One day, while working about halfway through the construction of their home, they heard a commotion on the streets. People were shouting out loud and cursing madly, holding letters made of heavy paper with a wax seal on the back.

Letters from the king.

When Bartholomew received his and read what was on it, he joined the cries of protest as well.

It was a newsletter from the crown, informing them of new taxes that would be collected from that point on. The extra money would be used to fund a war. The dreaded step into formal battle had been taken. Apparently, the French that had settled further north had joined forces with the indians of that area to push the English settlers back down south.

"This is outrageous!" cried Ince, crushing the letter in his hands. "How dare he do this? We came all the way here to avoid getting caught up in all of his idiotic glory!"

Bartholomew looked at Ince with concern. "King William calls war on these people, brother. _War_. We are lucky he only wants more coins and not more soldiers. We would have no choice."

Ince turned to him with a look of rage, barely able to contain his hands from shaking. "No, brother," he said through gritted teeth. "Of course we have a choice. We will not join his army. If it ever gets to that point, we will flee. I refuse to serve his royal highness any longer. Pitiful excuse of a monarch. Honestly."

Bartholomew nodded. "Only time will tell if it gets that far. I doubt it will happen so."

"Let us pray, Bart. And damned be the hour if it ever sees the light of day."


	2. Chapter 2

That wait, though prolonged for two years, reached its end when the news of a battle arrived to town. It was a story of brutal truth and horror cloaked in a heap of confusion and fury.

Bartholomew was sitting in his room with a book about government systems strewn across his lap, enjoying the peace and quiet. He was thinking about getting something to eat when his brother burst through the door and immediately went for the suitcases to begin packing.

"We have to get out of here!"

"Why?" asked Bartholomew, not liking the tone of anxiousness in his brother's voice. "What is it? What is wrong?"

"Now, Bart!" he shouted. "We have to go! Pack up your things!"

Getting up quickly, he did as he was told and shoved everything in sight into an old, leather bag. "What is it?"

Ince ignored him for a moment, fumbling with the straps to another suitcase.

"There was a massacre."

"What? Where?"

"In Schenectady. About half a day's travel north from here. Those damn French attacked the settlement there with the help of some indians."

"Were there any dead?" asked Bartholomew, taking out his clothes from the wardrobe and throwing them into the bag.

"Have you not heard what I just said? It was a _massacre_. A slaughter! Hardly a battle and more of a brutal attack."

Bartholomew swallowed nervously. "How many?"

"Sixty."

"Sixty?" he gasped, looking around the room though he wasn't looking for anything. He was trying to work out what that meant. "Meaning-"

"Meaning the king is not going to be happy. The war has reached a new level. All able bodies will be expected to join the army and fight. And I am _not_ doing that. There are things you do in war, Bart," he said, pausing for a bit while his eyes took a distant look. "Things you are not proud of. But it is war. I have done many of those things working for the king. I hope you never have to see what those things are."

Seeing how troubled his brother was with the topic, Bart switched over to a more pressing matter. "So where are we going? As far west as possible?"

"No no. They would find us eventually."

"Then?"

"Down. Like we planned."

"Down where?"

"Underground! Remember?"

Bartholomew glanced at his brother with an incredulous look. "Ince, that was _years_ ago."

"The guide is outside, waiting."

"What?!"

"Just make haste! You can ask questions later!"

As quickly as they could, they packed up everything they owned and met the dark skinned man outside their door. Without a word, he turned around and began walking out towards the forest.

The brothers followed him nervously, giving an occasional glance backwards to make sure they weren't being followed.

After quite a walk through thick trees and shrubs, they arrived to their destination. A clearing in a pile of bushes revealed a small, narrow cave, barely wide enough to let them through. The brothers shared an uneasy look before squeezing through after their guide.

 _This was actually happening_.

Once they were in, they lit torches and continued their journey in silence, too nervous and scared to speak. It was as if they were entering a new dimension, and talking would break the spell and keep them above forever, at the mercy of the King.

No matter how many hours passed, the nervousness didn't just melt away. They felt just as wary as when they had first entered the cave, and they held onto their torches tightly. The pressure in their ears and the drop in temperature told them that they were going deeper into the Earth, which only served to excite them and add to their growing anxiety.

Finally, they entered a clearing, wide enough to make them forget they were in a network of caves deep in the planet's surface. As they went in further, the men were gifted with quite a sight at the base of the cave. In clumps of three, small makeshift huts filled the majority of the cavern, bringing a sense of comfort to the vast open space. When they were within shouting distance, following their guide closely with the jaws slightly agape, the trio was greeted by an old man of about seventy with strange gray hair and blue eyes. The hue of blue, however, was one they had never seen before.

"Welcome, friends from above," he greeted them, smiling widely. "It is as rare as trees to have visitors here. What brings you so far down?"

The guide, who had bowed his head in respect, had stepped back a few feet, leaving Bartholomew and Ince to answer all questions. They shared a look before facing the elder. The reality of the situation they now found themselves in was a sudden shock. Neither of them actually expected to find something there. It was more wishful thinking than anything.

But now they were face to face with someone who _lived_ underground.

"Nothing good, I am afraid," Ince answered honestly.

The man leaned in with a frown. "Oh?"

"The king is causing trouble with a new war, and we decided we had enough of that," he continued, standing up straight.

"Ah, the mortal grip of tyranny," the man nodded solemnly. "That is what my grandfather seeked refuge from when he came here and started this settlement. King James was not a very well liked king. Are his descendents still tormenting the people of New Amsterdam?"

The brothers shared another look. "It is called New York now. And there is another king in power now, but yes, King William is very much a plague."

"I would imagine so," he nodded. "How rude of me!" the man said suddenly. "My name is Codell. I am the chief of this settlement, responsible for these humble people you see here," he announced, turning to look behind him and motioning to the small huts with a wave of his arm.

"My name is Si- er, I mean, Ince of Sandwich. And this is my younger brother Bartholomew."

Bartholomew gave an awkward wave, unsure of what to do or say. He was still reeling in shock from the fact that this underground settlement actually existed.

"Pleasure to meet you," bowed the chief, giving them another smile. "Because of your reasoning, I assume you are staying, yes?"

"That is what we hope for."

"Then please, make yourselves at home. We may not have much, but we are grateful for it."

"Thank you."

Surprised by the acceptance and generosity of the chief, Ince and Bart took hesitant steps as they followed him. Gathering around a small fire, the brothers received any food they were offered and hungrily ate it all. The chief told them stories of the people, stories only he knew. They had some fun for a while before the guide that had brought them announced that he was heading back to the surface. The brothers tried to convince him to stay, but the man could not be persuaded.

"I shall accompany you, then," said Ince.

"I thought we were staying here," mused Bartholomew.

"We are, but I need to go tell others about this place. You stay here."

The chief stood up at that, taking a small step towards them. "I would prefer if you did not tell anyone. This place must remain a secret. Two new integrations is of no issue, but an entire group is not possible."

"But people are in danger out there," pleaded Ince. "They are subject to the cruel law of a monarch. Will you deny people sanctuary from that? The very reason your grandfather came down here in the first place?"

The chief frowned, crossing his arms and staring into the fire, thinking.

"I will bring honest people. And I will also bring medics and scribes, along with cattle. It would all be beneficiary to this settlement," continued Ince.

It was a moment before the silence was broken.

"Fine," sighed Chief Codell, closing his eyes in defeat. "I cannot deny we need a good doctor or two. And the cattle would help feed all the other people."

"I will not be long," promised Ince, turning around and running after the guide.

For a moment, all was silent. That is, until Bartholomew spoke.

"Is there anything I can do to make an honest living here?"

* * *

The next day, Bartholomew was busy tying thin vines together to use on his new hut when his brother showed up with more people. Although Ince had promised to only bring a handful of people, even from afar anyone could tell it was more than just a few. The sheer number was enough to make the chief angry, but Ince was quickly able to calm him down, showing him the amount of doctors he had brought to cure the people that were already there.

With more people, however, there was a quick demand for more space. Groups of people were sent out to clear the land so that they could expand. In the attempt to branch out, they found a variety of resources. Wells and springs with fresh water, caves with all sorts of gems and precious metals, and a thick black liquid that was helpful with keeping their fires burning. There was very little light underground, and fire soon became the most important resource.

Those weren't the only things they came across. A few days later, they discovered something strange. Something horrible.

Something…wonderful.

They found that there was an entire race of underground rodents, as big as carriages, living in the land adjacent to the one the humans were inhabiting. It was a vast land, full of fertile soil and high ground, easy to defend in case anything attacked. Seeing the giants rodents was enough to convince everyone in the settlement that other giant things lived down here. Fortunately for them, the giant digging creatures were peaceful.

The chief insisted they keep away from them, out of respect, but Bartholomew knew it wasn't going to work. There were too many humans now, and if they didn't expand, they would not stand a chance. Tight living quarters and poor hygiene were the perfect factors for disease to ravish the population.

"All we need to do is talk to them," Ince told Chief Codell for what seemed like the hundredth time, but the man shook his head firmly.

"Over the years, things have remained peaceful. I do not wish to disturb this peace."

"If we have an alliance, then maybe they will understand. Especially if we give them something in return. Maybe we can offer them that dark liquid we found in the caves. It sure is helpful to keep fires going, but maybe it is worth more to them."

The chief thought it over quickly, slumping his shoulders as he sighed. "I suppose if we keep things amicable, there is no reason we cannot work something out. I will talk to them on the morrow."

"I will go with you," offered Bartholomew.

Ince turned to look at him with his eyebrows raised. "You, little brother?"

"I can take care of myself, Ince."

He smiled. "It is settled then. You two will go and work an agreement with them. Hopefully they are understanding."

Chief Codell nodded slightly with a sigh. "Hopefully."

* * *

The walk to the digging creatures' land was not all too long, as the lands had been apparently slightly overlapping. Bartholomew was not in high spirits, but he couldn't help feel a bit excited. He imagined that he was an ambassador, going to treat foreign affairs. Complete with a sword, which hung loosely on his belt. His blacksmithing skills had come in handy.

It was a beauty of a sword, with small jewels embedded into the metal. The balance was perfect, and its sharp edge was something to be envied by swordsmen everywhere. He had made a small dagger just like it, but that had been a present for Ince. Though smaller in size, it was just as deadly as Bartholomew's sword. He was sure that both his sword and the jeweled dagger would long outlive anyone in the settlement.

Bartholomew waited patiently while the chief and a small digger spoke about the land. Both he and the chief were surprised to see that they could understand their language. Apparently these diggers had been watching the humans for some time, acquiring enough information over time to speak. The thought of this made Bartholomew nervous, not sure what to make of it.

How long had they been watching them, exactly? What if they had decided to attack? Up until recently, the humans didn't even know of the diggers' _existence_!

Through the digger's broken English, Bart was able to understand that they would not give up the land. Before the conversation was over, a larger digger made its way over and starting making noises with the smaller one. After a moment, the small one spoke to the chief, his head in a low bow.

"Father says if humans do not go, we force them out."

The comment angered Bartholomew, his jaw almost dropping. Force them out? Like if they were being exiled? "Who do you think you are?" he shouted, pulling out his sword.

At the sight of a weapon, the small digger jumped back, but the older one charged forward and swung his claws at Bartholomew, who stuck his sword out to defend himself.

"No!" cried the chief, jumping in between the two in hopes of stopping a battle. Bart pulled his sword back in time, but the digger was unfortunately too slow. A sickening sound echoed off the cave walls as his long claws sunk into the chief's torso. When the digger pulled his claws back in surprise, the chief's intestines went with them.

"Murder!" yelled Bartholomew, lunging forward and stabbing the overgrown rodent with his sword. He pulled his weapon back, noticing the shiny red liquid at the end before turning around and running into the caves. Without stopping for even a single breath, he made it back to the settlement and told his brother, along with a few others, what had just happened.

"So they killed the chief?" Ince asked again.

"Aye, brother. And they mean to use force to get rid of us!"

"That is barbaric!"

"Whether it is or is not, we cannot leave."

"But we cannot go to war over this. We have few weapons, fewer people, and no plan of attack," cried Ince, frowning.

"Perhaps we will not need people or weapons."

Ince leaned in. "What are you thinking?"

With a sigh, Bartholomew whispered the words his brother had told him some time back.

"I am thinking that there are things you do in war. Things you are not proud of. But it is war."


	3. Chapter 3

Digging a channel from the cave with the dark liquid to the river was not difficult. Especially with the help of volunteers who were pitching in with hopes of doing something in the chief's name. They were hoping to avenge him, and it's exactly what they did. By helping to poison the diggers' water supply.

It was a war strategy meant to avoid a war.

When the channel was complete, Bartholomew gave the signal, erasing the last bit of dirt between the oil and the river. Ince had left him take charge, since it was his idea.

Within days, the diggers began dropping like flies. They had no idea their water source had been contaminated. All they knew was that the humans were behind it. With no defense against an invisible enemy, they had no choice but to surrender and retreat, ceding the land to the humans who immediately moved further in.

They probably should have felt bad about what they did, but the guilt never kicked in. Those creatures had killed the chief. By the way, Ince and Bartholomew were only looking out for the humans. If the diggers hadn't left, the humans would surely die. They _had_ to run them out.

Both brothers were left to care for the people, for the most part. With a bit of convincing, they were able to get the people to work on digging into the rock itself to create homes. Bartholomew reminded them of the king, and how he taxed unfairly for no good reasons. Here, there was none of that. Honest work for a place to sleep and warm food to eat. Everyone helped. Everyone was equal.

Despite the equality and the relative peace, there were still robberies and fights among people. The brothers established a system of jailing in order to keep the people safe. Someone accused would be separated from the rest and incarcerated until there was an investigation. They used the same caves to jail people from when the chief was alive, since it was the farthest away from the city they were constructing.

Bartholomew knew that a few people were still locked up from the times of the chief, but he decided to put that off until later. There was no way he was going to stress out over something insignificant.

With the motivation of food and shelter, the city began taking shape surprisingly fast. The combined efforts of the people soon had buildings of shops and homes everywhere. Some time later, people started moving in and settling into new homes, working on building every other day while they sold jewelry and food and art pieces on the other days.

On a particularly calm day, Bartholomew was walking down a street and came upon an elderly woman with many herbs and spices he had never seen before. Looking around curiously, he stepped closer to the herbs.

"I have never seen these before," he noted.

"I grow them here, inside my house," she replied with a smile.

"Without the sun?"

"There are ways to grow things without the help of the sun."

"All of these plants are healthy?"

"They are used to cure ailments."

"So none of them are poisonous?"

"I beg your pardon?"

Bartholomew cleared his throat. "Can you poison anyone with these?"

The woman paused. "I suppose that if fed enough of this," she said slowly, pointing to a long, thin herb, "one could accelerate the heart enough to kill."

"Interesting."

An herb that could be used to hurt someone? Absolutely not. Ince had to know about this. Something like this plant could cause murder, and that would not be allowed here. They were aiming for a near perfect society, and something like murder could ruin all of that.

"Thank you," he said simply, bowing to the woman before turning on his heel and walking off. Ince should be at home, and he had to know.

He was nearing his home when he was stopped by a few of the men that had been assigned guard duty for the day. They stopped him short of his home, asking him to accompany them.

"We have been told you were asking about poisonous plants. Do you plan on killing someone, sir?"

"Of course not!" he said, taken aback. "I was curious because I was deciding whether they should be allowed or not. I was on my way to consult with my brother, actually."

"I am sorry, sir, but we need to take you in until it can be proven otherwise."

"Me?"

The guard nodded apologetically. "Everyone is equal, sir."

Bartholomew hung his head, knowing there was no other way. The man was right. Everyone was equal. It was the very principle he had established himself.

* * *

"I cannot believe they brought you here."

"It is quite alright, brother. I am not angry. Truly, this is the system we designed. We must follow it."

"I suppose."

"Besides, it is not as if I were being treated miserably. The person in my cell has been asleep the entire time. No annoyances. No burdens. Everything is okay."

"I will get you out of here," Ince assured him.

"Peace, brother. No worries. Patience."

"I will, though," said Ince as he walked away slowly. "I will. And I will also ask around about your cellmate. Rest well."

Bartholomew smiled until his brother was out of sight. Turning around, he looked over at the sleeping cellmate, who was a quiet dreamer except for the occasional twitch.

Sighing, he sat down on his bench and covered his face with his hands. Patience. That's all he needed. Patience.

For the rest of the night, there was only silence, which is a big help when someone is trying to find sleep.

* * *

"His name is Balbas."

"Balbas?"

"Aye."

"What a peculiar name."

"Strange, yes, I know. But the strangest news is that…he was the chief's son."

"Chief Codell?" asked Bartholomew in a whisper, stealing a quick glance back to this sleeping cellmate.

"The very same."

He frowned. "He never mentioned having a son."

"That is the strange part," whispered Ince, leaning closer. "They say he practically disowned him when he had him jailed up. Apparently the boy is mentally ill, and that is simply unacceptable when you are the chief's son."

"Poor bastard. No wonder he sleeps so much."

Ince nodded. "Unfortunately, that is all the news I have. Nothing yet about your questioning. Although I do not doubt it will be soon."

"Thank you for everything, brother."

"I will be back with more news."

When Ince was gone, Bartholomew walked over to his bed and laid down. He was about to fall asleep when the other man moved, getting up from the cot and standing up straight.

Without any hesitation, the man walked over to a corner of the room and sat down, knees up to his chest and arms wrapped around them. He made no effort to show he knew Bartholomew was there.

Confused, Bart sat up and cleared his throat.

"Hello."

Nothing. The boy only sat there, completely still.

"My name is Bartholomew of Sandwich."

Still nothing.

After a few moments of silence, the boy began rocking back and forth, mumbling to himself. They were completely random words, but the boy repeated them to himself over and over. When more efforts to start a conversation failed, Bartholomew gave up and laid back down, ignoring the mumbling boy.

If the boy wanted to act like Bartholomew wasn't even in the room, then Bart was happy doing the exact same…

* * *

Pretending the boy wasn't there was easy for the first few days. It's like he didn't exist. But the more days went by, the harder it got.

The boy mumbled nonstop. Day and night. That's all he did. He would go to sleep repeating words, and then resume the meaningless jabber when he awoke the next morning.

Eventually, the days started adding up. For weeks that's all Bartholomew heard. Ince came by every day promising him to speed up the questioning date. He said he tried to get it after a few days, but the rest of the established governing board had already decided to do it after a month. With this decision, there was nothing Bartholomew could do but sit in that cell and listen to the boy's mumbling.

His patience growing thin, Bartholomew took to meditating. However, thinking about anything but the mumbling boy would push his thoughts to other things.

What was he even doing here? Working as a laborer for years in a strange land before being locked up in a cell? Just a few years earlier, he was high society in the Old Country! Now, he was reduced to a simple prisoner. Why had he let Ince bring him? How was this fair? His brother was out there enjoying his freedom while he rotted in jail. Slowly decaying in a cave underground with a boy who just wouldn't shut up.

Every once in a while, however, the kid would stop his usual rambling and cry. He would start saying things about how he wanted it to stop. How he wanted to be freed. But then he would start the other rambling again, and things would go back to normal.

Ha. Normal. This was normal now?

Yes. This is what everyday life consisted of now. And it was all Ince's fault. He was out there gaining trust from the people, hoping to become the next chief while Bart had to listen to nonsense. Losing valuable time of his life for what? For asking about a bloody plant? He was only looking out for the future of the settlement!

And yet the people betrayed him. Even locked him up. Unbelievable.

So screw them. All of them. He would only look out for himself from now on. A war between him and everyone else.

* * *

Weeks and weeks went by with things unchanging. Wake up, listen to useless muttering, then go to sleep. And then do it all over again.

When Bartholomew honestly thought he would go mad, the boy finally stopped.

Just like that. Done.

It was like putting out a candle. Instant. One moment he was mumbling and rocking back and forth, the next he was silent and still. It was even stranger than when he was mumbling, actually. When Bartholomew could hold the curiosity no more, he got up from his cot and turned to the boy.

"What is wrong?"

The boy didn't answer. Instead, he only looked straight ahead with a blank expression.

"What is it?" tried Bart for second time.

"I am going to die," the boy whispered.

Bartholomew froze, unsure if he had heard correctly. "What did you say?"

"I am going to die," he repeated simply.

Bartholomew clicked his tongue in annoyance, falling back against his pillow. "You are not going to die, boy."

A small laugh left the boy's lips. "I am going to be murdered."

"What in the bloody hell are you talking about?"

"My death," he grinned. "I have seen it."

"Saw what? How?"

"Death. What a relief," the boy smiled, wider this time. "Alas! My salvation comes!"

Bartholomew's jaw nearly dropped in wonder and incredulity. Was this kid serious? Or was he pulling his strings? Maybe the kid's hearing was better. Maybe he could hear the footsteps of guards outside coming in to execute him. That had to be it!

He turned his head the other way, facing the door but trying to keep the boy in sight too. What the kid was saying was creeping him out.

"I am going to die," the boy repeated, this time running his hands over his face in nervous anticipation. The tears mixed with his saliva and snot, but he didn't seem to mind. The large grin never left his face.

"You are not!" hissed Bart. "Now stop saying that!"

"I will be free."

"Free from what?"

"I will be free."

"Quiet, kid!"

"It will all be over," he laughed, letting his teeth show.

His laughing got louder with every second that passed. No matter how much time went by or how uncomfortable Bartholomew was getting, the boy did not stop laughing. He just laughed and laughed.

And laughed.

It was a maniacal, sinister laugh, one not heard in real life. As a kid, you were told stories of evil men and women who laughed a devilish laugh, of witches and sorcerers in the dark of the forest, but that was left to imagination. With this boy's laugh, though, no imagination was needed.

If hearing the kid mumble for weeks was horrible, the strange laugh was worse. It was the laugh of a corpse, if the dead could laugh.

Standing from his bed, Bartholomew walked over to him and stood a few feet away, looking down at him.

"Stop laughing."

But the boy only laughed louder, standing up to do so in his face. He was _taunting_ him! Frustrated, Bartholomew pushed him away, shouting at him to stop laughing.

What he didn't count on was for the boy to trip in his stumble backwards and fall down, cracking his skull on the stone floor below.

And then there was silence.

Turning him over quickly to help him out, Bartholomew gasped to see that the boy's head was completely cracked open and blood was gushing out at an alarming rate. Bleeding out would have been an issue if the boy was still alive.

But the kid's eyes were lifeless orbs of indigo blue.

And the sinister smile was still plastered on his face, unmoving.

 _Oh no_.

Bart stepped back and brought his hands to the top of his head, interlocking his fingers. He took a few unsteady steps back, trying to get away from his accident. His mistake. His…solution…

What had he done? Had he just _killed_ someone? Was that what the kid knew? He had said he would be murdered, but how had Bartholomew ended up being the murderer? Unless the kid knew…

No, that was impossible!

Right?

Possible or not, all of this could have been avoided. The murder. The lock up. The travel to the underground. The journey to escape England. It was all out of his control.

His anger was stronger than anything he had ever felt. The speeding heartbeat as no longer from a panicked, frightened man. It belonged to a rage-filled victim, one who suffered more than enough to get him through two lifetimes. If Ince hadn't been such a coward and made them flee to America, things would be so different. But no. He was stuck here.

The body below him was enough to cause someone to faint, but Bartholomew looked at it anyway. The initial alarm had quickly worn off, and now he was surprisingly calm. He wasn't scared. In fact, he felt...nothing.

Nothing but anger.

So this is what it was like to kill someone.

He waited a bit, making sure the emotions didn't kick in late, but still nothing.

No remorse. No internal conflict. No guilt. Simply nothing.

But nothing was also bad. He realized he didn't feel joy anymore. Joy for being away from King William. Joy for having a nice home. For having the respect of the people.

Just nothing.

Was this what being locked up did to someone?

The sound of footsteps cut him out of his thoughts. Turning towards the cell door, he waited as the sound of keys became louder. Unlocking and swinging the door open, Ince stepped in and spotted Bartholomew right away.

Here he was. The coward at fault for everything. The one to blame for how Bartholomew's life had turned out.

"Brother! I have good news! You are being released!" Ince cried enthusiastically. "I was able to convince everyone that you meant no harm with the poison questions. It took some time to convince the governing council, but the people were very supportive of your release. And since we have not had a definite leader since the death of the chief, they are speaking of letting the two of us take command of the settlement! Permanently! What do you think?"

It took Bartholomew a moment to register everything his brother had said.

What did he think? Leader of the tribe? The charges of murder against a sickly boy would _never_ hold against him then…

"I find I rather like the idea."

"Great!" said Ince, clapping him on the back and turning towards the door. Bartholomew was honestly surprised his brother hadn't seen the body yet.

"There is a problem, though," Bartholomew said quietly.

"And what would that b-"

Ince finally noticed the body and went pale white, staring at the corpse.

"What the bloody hell happened?"

Bartholomew yawned. "He fell," he answered simply.

"Fell? That wound is serious! How could he have fallen to receive an injury that-?"

"He just did," shrugged Bartholomew.

Ince eyed him carefully, eventually giving him a slow nod. "Alright brother. I believe you. Like I said, the people want to elect us to be leaders. This will not be a problem for long."

"I know that. But that was not the problem I was referring to."

Ince frowned. "Then what other problem is there?"

Before Ince could say anything else, Bartholomew lunged forward and took his brother's jeweled dagger from his waist, immediately sticking it into his heart.

"The problem is, _brother_ ," he whispered, watching as the light left Ince's eyes, "Two leaders is one too many."

When his brother's body finally went limp, Bartholomew let it fall to the ground, removing the dagger and tucking it under his shirt at his waist after wiping it clean.

"Guards!" he shouted. "They are killing each other!"

The two men came running to the cell, instantly rushing to check the bodies and why they were so bloody. What they failed to see was a shadow creep up behind them. Their throats were slit before they could react, and soon they were just another pair of bodies on the floor of that cell.


	4. Chapter 4

"I had to! It was horrible, but I had no choice. No choice at all!"

"I understand. We are sorry you had to go through this."

"Not as sorry as I am," whispered Bartholomew, wiping the tears from his eyes. "Tell me you would be happy killing a young boy."

"Of course not."

"The only motivation I had to push him away was that he had just stabbed my brother after hurting the guards. I had no idea he would fall that hard! I would have been happy if no deaths came from any of this!"

"You did the right thing in stopping his murderous track. After killing three people, who knows how many more he would have gotten to. We are lucky you were there. And we are proud to have someone as brave as yourself lead our people."

"I only did what was right."

The man nodded, bowing his head. "I must let you rest, sir. Thank you. We shall speak again on the morrow."

Alone once more, Bartholomew looked around the decorated house and smiled. It was the house built to house the new leader of the people. And the entire place was _his_. All his. Being the only leader had many more perks than he had anticipated.

This was a lot easier than he had planned.

I mean sure, his brother had to die, but it was necessary.

There are things you do in war. Things you are not proud of. But it is war.

* * *

"Let us be clear! We did not escape monarchy. We escaped tyranny! We escaped injustice and cruelty! Am I right?"

A loud murmur or agreement rang through the crowd of people, some even raising a clenched fist into the air.

"Well, I will _not_ be what I escaped from. I know what it feels like to live under such rule, and I will live my life making sure it does not happen here. You have my word."

The applause that followed made him smile. How could they be so foolish? The idea of going back to monarchy was something mentioned months ago, when he had first taken full leadership over the people. But now it was a reality.

 _King_ _Bartholomew_ was a reality.

There was a feast, of course, in his newly built palace. He had made sure to keep appearances, helping the people and keeping their admiration, respect, and loyalty. When the idea of a palace emerged, everyone had all but jumped at the idea of building a structure worthy of the great Bartholomew of Sandwich, leader and protector of people.

The same people that had betrayed him and locked him up

It was a festivity like none other seen before in the land. Music and food and dancers and women. Many, many women. He enjoyed the party, enjoyed the wine, but most of all, how people smiled when they called him their king.

* * *

Bartholomew woke up in the middle of the night, startled by someone in the room. He had the strange sensation that he was being watched. Looking around quickly, he saw a shadow near the doorway, the thin silhouette of a person.

He struggled to find a logical explanation but was unable to find any. Both women he had spent the earlier hours of the night with were still with him in bed and accounted for. So who did that silent shadow belong to?

As soon as he made a move to get out of bed, the shadow turned and walked out the door, seemingly going _through_ the curtain. Running after it, Bartholomew saw it head down a hallway, going into another chamber. Bartholomew broke out onto a sprint, refusing to let the stranger disappear. When he finally got to it, he found the person just standing there in the middle of the room, completely motionless and with his back turned to him.

Slowly, the shadow turned around, revealing a bloodied face and those crazy blue eyes. When Bartholomew blinked, the form became distorted and shifted into the that of his brother, a dagger clearly embedded in his breast. On the next blink, the figure had vanished altogether, leaving Bartholomew baffled and disoriented.

Carefully, he got back to his room, finding that the body heat of both sleeping women on his mattress provided no warmth for the rest of the night.

It was the following night at dinner that things started to go terribly wrong.

"Would you like some more fish, your grace?"

"No, I am fine. Thank you, Cassie."

"What about another murder instead, brother?" said a cold voice.

"What?!" shouted Bartholomew, looking at the young servant girl.

The teen gave him a frightened look. "I asked if you would like some wine instead, your highness."

Bartholomew blinked. "Ah, no. No. No thank you. I have had quite enough to drink already, I believe."

Standing up, he walked out of the dining hall and headed towards the royal wing.

"Augustus," he called, spotting a guard as he stumbled through the halls.

The man ran over to him quickly and bowed. "Yes, your highness?"

"Find Matthew, the scribe, and send him to the royal wing. I would like a word with him."

"Right away, sir."

Bartholomew didn't have to wait long before the man scurried into the sitting room of the royal wing with a huge roll of parchment.

"You wished to speak to me, your grace?" he asked in a high pitched, nasally voice.

"Aye," he nodded, looking off. "I have had quite a bit to drink tonight. And I have found that thinking of the past is what gets me this way. You would not want an alcoholic king, now would you?"

"Of course not, my king."

"Very well then. I have decided I must get rid of the things that bring up the past and make me this way. You are the only one with direct access to all records. I want you to erase all traces of my brother, the elder chief, and his delusional son. No marks of them at all. Their memory torments me so and brings me pain. So…make them vanish," he said with a wave of his hand, as if performing a magic trick. "They were never here. Do you understand?"

"I do, your grace."

"I alone brought the settlers. I saw this...this...Underland...in a dream," he said slowly, stroking his chin. "Yes, simply that. A dream. Also, I alone defeated the diggers. You will also make sure the people never verbally speak of Ince or Codell again either. Post signs over the city if you have to, I care not. Any mention of them could cause me discomfort. Am I clear?"

"Never clearer, my king."

"Wonderful. Now go," he ordered, dismissing him with another wave of his hand. "You have much work to do."

The man bowed quickly before departing, leaving the king with a tall glass of wine.

* * *

It started off quietly. Very quietly. But over the weeks, it got louder and louder.

Sometimes he would hear it at dinner. Other times during meetings. He would even hear it while he was bathing or getting ready for bed.

At first he didn't recognize it. It was such a strange, odd sound. He was sure he had heard it before but couldn't quite place it. When he remembered what it was, he wished with every fiber in his being that he hadn't.

It was the mumbling.

The incoherent, nonsense-filled mumbling that kid had endlessly repeated in the cell. One day Bartholomew was fine, the next, his head was replete with idiocy. Pointless chatter that only annoyed him.

But then it got to the point where he could hear it all the time. No matter where he was, it followed him. Everywhere he went, the mumbling went with him. It was just louder than all other noises around him, almost as if determined to never be drowned out. It bounced off everything in the room and returned to him much more amplified than it needed to be.

"Claudius!"

"Yes, my king."

"Is there a room in this palace with no light or sound? Or anything else in it?"

"My king?"

"Is there or is there not?"

"There...is. One. Not very large at all. It was meant to use as a storage, but it is still vacant to this day."

"Take me."

"Of course, your grace."

The pounding in his head grew worse during his walk through the palace. The words were growing louder and louder in his thoughts, taking over everything.

When he finally reached the room, he noticed Claudius open a small wooden door leading inside. He thanked him, perhaps a bit too loudly, since he had to scream over the voices in his head.

Once he shut the door, everything went silent.

Not a sound.

Not even the noises of what was going on outside. The quiet was so magnificent. He had forgotten what it was like. A moment later, he found himself laughing. It was more of a relieved chuckle, but what the hell.

No more mumbling of nonsense and stupidity. No more yelling in his head. It was so refreshing. He might just have to move into this small room, though it was barely larger than a closet. It wouldn't be so bad. He could have his bed over there. And a dresser over there, on the opposite corner. And maybe he could put his-

But then it started again. As if someone had lit a flame again and was slowly fanning it until it became a raging forest fire that was way beyond control. The mumbling was as loud as a ferry train horn, and it was driving him mad.

"No no no no NOOOO!" he wailed, throwing himself against a wall with his hands over his ears. He couldn't take it anymore!

Was this his fate? To suffer this torment for killing four people and countless diggers? Would he ever find peace?

Reaching to his waist, he drew the jeweled dagger he had used to kill his brother and brought it to his wrist. If this was what was meant for him for the rest of his life, then he wanted no part in it. He might as well end it now. A quick slice to the wrist would end this seemingly eternal torment.

And then the strange got stranger. The dagger in his hand ceased to exist. His hand itself ceased to exist. The room seemed to melt away for a second, giving way to something new entirely.

 _Words_.

The mumbling he heard in his head day and night took the form of visible words. They seemed to dance in front of his eyes, taunting him, repulsive yet inviting. His hearing had been taken from him, and now it was his eyesight.

But he knew what to do now. Suddenly seeing the jeweled dagger again and pulling it away from his wrist, he stuck it into the wall and carved a line. Then another. And another.

 _Two Over, Two Under, of Royal Descent…_

How did he remember these words?

 _Evil cloaked in coat of white…_

Days and nights of listening to that little freak had engraved these words to his memory.

 _Turn and turn and turn again. You see the what but not the when…_

What did they mean? Wait. Did it matter?

 _When the monster's blood is spilled, when the warrior has been killed…_

Oh, but they made so much sense now!

 _On soft feet, by none detected…_

Writing the words had caused them to stop blasting into his mind. It kept the voices from coming back. And that was all that mattered. He finally found a way to beat it.

He had finally won.

Funny, right?

It was. Nothing could beat the great Bartholomew of Sandwich. _Nothing_. It was truly a hilarious concept to even _think_ something could beat him. Absolutely hilarious.

So he laughed. And laughed.

And laughed.

When the guards finally burst through the door, they found the walls completely covered in writings and their king sitting on the floor, curled up in a corner. He had his hands around his legs, his knees tucked up to his chin. He was rocking slowly back and forth.

But what they remembered most, and what they would remember for the rest of their lives, was his laugh.

Evil, sinister, and lost.

Completely lost.

Rivaled only, perhaps, by the long forgotten chief's dead son.


End file.
